


Le Veau D'Or

by Anna_Hopkins



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (in a sense), Alternate Universe - No Voldemort, Dubious Morality, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, Possibly Pre-Slash, Pureblood Culture, Rating May Change, Slow To Update, Tags May Change, Warnings May Change, Wizarding Traditions (Harry Potter), Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-06-26 18:35:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15668916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anna_Hopkins/pseuds/Anna_Hopkins
Summary: (est toujours debout!)"The Dark Arts are many, varied, ever-changing, and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster...you are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible."Tom Marvolo Riddle watched Grindelwald's movement die, largely, with his defeat. Let it not be said that Lord Voldemort cannot learn from others' failures: rather than a military movement, the new generation of the Dark grows through seduction, and the Dark Lord rules His Underground from the shadows.By the time Harry Potter turns eleven, the magical world his parents knew is in the process of being subsumed under the philosophies and lifestyles of a young, hedonistic majority -- where there is only power and those too weak to seek it. And Harry has grown up sheltered, but he is not weak, not at all...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sweet Salazar, this _fic_. I started writing it in May when the Tomarry Big Bang was announced, originally intending it to be a lot shorter. Ultimately, it shifted into a longer fic rather outside my awareness. I later envisioned a pacing somewhat like MayMarlow's _The Train to Nowhere_ , which I greatly admire -- that is to say, a very long, slow burn -- but realized that as much as I love worldbuilding, I don't quite have the patience for it.
> 
> At its core, _Le Veau D'Or_ is to be a sort of coming-of-age story, where our young, intelligent, and privately rebellious Harry seizes the place his name and abilities have made for him in the world. Worth noting: there is no Boy-Who-Lived in this story. The universe diverges from canon in 1945.

Sometimes, James Fleamont Potter wondered just how he’d been lucky enough to live the life he did. If he hadn’t met Lily Evans on the train to Hogwarts – hadn’t learned, through her, that there was more to life than the parties and politics his father had raised him with – he would probably be out in the Wizengamot right now, mingling with Dark wizards, instead of enjoying his Sunday off from Auroring at the kitchen table in their cottage at Godric’s Hollow.

Lovely Lily, and dear young Harry, were in the back garden tending the potions plants that James’ wife used in her brewing sessions. Their wide-brimmed hats were wreathed in wildflowers; the morning light rode on his wife’s bare shoulders like a mantle. James watched from the window, unabashedly happy at the sight of her. If he were sent back to Hogwarts now, he wouldn’t do anything differently.

_Speaking of Hogwarts…_ The letter that had woken him earlier in the morning, delivered by an impatient owl burdened with three more for nearby recipients, was burning a hole in James’ pocket. Behind him, in the middle of the table, sat a pile of presents Harry didn’t know had arrived for him, though from the way he kept glancing back at the house, it was obvious he was thinking about them. James couldn’t hear exactly what his wife and son were talking about, but given the way Harry giggled and ran back up the hill to the house, while Lily jogged behind him, it was obviously time for opening gifts.

 

Lily would cherish the expression on James and Harry’s faces – pride, on the one, and excitement, on the other – even if she hadn’t thought to get a photograph. They’d been expecting Harry’s Hogwarts letter for a while; unlike Alice and Frank Longbottom, neither parent had worried about whether Harry had shown enough accidental magic to qualify, but that didn’t make it any less gratifying to hear her son read aloud, in the poshest affectation he could muster, “ _To Mr. Harry James Potter: We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…_ ”

Going through the attic yesterday proved extremely helpful in narrowing down the list of supplies they needed to buy in Diagon today; Harry’s supply list was almost identical to hers and James’ own, particularly books-wise, so they were sure to have more time to browse in the London shops, and more money to spend on what they did buy. Her son was practically bouncing in his chair waiting for breakfast to be over, babbling about Quality Quidditch Supplies and Flourish & Blotts and Gambol & Japes and Eeylops’ Owl Emporium, where they’d gotten the family owl, Albert, last year, and Lily had promised Harry could get an owl of his own this year. “Albert will be so surprised when he finds another owl in the house,” James joked – the tawny owl was winging his way to Hogwarts with their reply, as was tradition.

Now, it was time for the other tradition: Harry had Flooed with his parents’ help before, but it was time he went on his own, ahead of them, now that he was of an age to enter Wizarding society. James wasn’t fond of a lot of traditions anymore, but this rite of passage served the other purpose of ensuring Harry could travel in an emergency, and frankly, it wasn’t that much of a challenge. “You remember the steps, right, love?” Lily took the Floo powder down from its dusty spot on the mantel; its contents sparkled in the light when Harry reached in to retrieve a pinch. “Make sure to enunciate clearly when you step into the flames; if you get lost, just find somewhere safe and press the top button on your cloak, and we’ll come get you.”

In retrospect, Lily thought shortly after, she should have trusted to her intuition and waited for a better time: for Harry coughed while reciting his destination, and wasn’t on the other side of the Floo the way they’d planned.

“Oh, bugger.”

 

Harry’s annoyance at himself for making the most basic Floo mistake – he _had_ taken the Floo before, with supervision, he should know better than to breathe in the hearth dust – was cut short by the first sight of his destination. He’d stumbled on the unfamiliar hearth at the other end, and would have fallen, if not for the wizard who caught him just before. “Wotcher there, sonny!” He turned to thank the man, but then did a double-take at the scene that greeted him.

Of all things, he’d just arrived at a _street party_ , the likes of which Harry had only ever seen in books – and it was so _crowded_ that whoever had helped him up had already been moved along by the people nearby. All around Harry, who was now staring like a tourist, probably, witches and wizards in colorful robes swarmed the street: they danced to music, cheered on duelists competing in chalk-circled rings, raced winged horses (Abraxans! He’d never seen those in person before!) overhead, and partook in the food and drink on tables on either side of the road. Luckily, Harry had managed to Floo onto a slightly raised platform, and got a full view of the goings-on over the heads of the crowd.

The eleven-year-old completely forgot about his mum’s reminder to press the button on his cloak. Instead, he meandered through the crowd, heading for one of the tables seen from the platform. He had just put a bunch of grapes and a slice of meat pie on one of the fancy plates stacked on each end of the table, and was looking for a fork, when an approaching voice caught his attention. “You there,” said a wizard draped in fabric like in the Roman stories, “care for a drink? I made my own brew for the feast!” He pushed his way past the other partygoers, levitating what looked like a tiny barrel and a row of empty goblets above his head. Harry balanced his plate in one hand to take an offered goblet full of purple juice, though he hesitated to drink it. “Er,” he looked up at the goateed wizard, who had purple streaming down his chin as he drank his own goblet, “is it okay for me to have this? I only turned eleven last night.” The reality of the situation was catching up with him, somewhat – what would his parents think if he got drunk and ‘disorderly’? (Whatever disorderly meant. Harry had heard his dad complain about it before, but he didn’t often care to listen.)

“Last night? Blimey!” The wizard beamed at him. “A right son of Loo you are, then – or nearly so! Congratulations!” He poured a little more of the purplish, sweet-smelling liquid into Harry’s goblet. “Ah, but a wise young lad you are – worry not! The wards don’t allow poisons through. It’s a _festival_ , after all.”

That didn’t actually answer Harry’s question of whether it would get him drunk, but feeling adventurous, he took a sip anyway, and raised his eyebrows as it hit his tongue. The purple brew tasted like sweet candies and fizzed just like the Muggle soda his mum had let him try a few years ago. “Wow, this is good,” he exclaimed, then remembered his manners. “Thank you for letting me try it. But what is this festival? Did something happen to celebrate?” As far as Harry knew, they couldn’t be celebrating _his_ birthday – he wasn’t some kind of _celebrity_ – and the wizard had called this a ‘festival’, hadn’t he? So the party must be a regular thing, even if he hadn’t heard of it before now.

“ _Loo-na-sa_ , my friend! August first! Surely you’ve heard of it?” While Harry thought back to the encyclopedia at home, trying to remember if he’d ever seen mention of wizarding festivals, the wizard was refilling his goblet and those of the partygoers nearby, sloshing a fair bit of purple onto the ground. Flowers bloomed where it landed. The man laughed at the sight, and the people nearby laughed with him.

Harry was pretty sure he’d never heard of ‘Loo-na-sa’, and was about to say so when a firm hand came down on his shoulder and turned him around. He paled at the expression on his father’s face, and barely managed to set his goblet and plate back on the table before James was pulling him away from the crowds and down the street to an intersection of Diagon and – bloody hell, _Knockturn Alley_? Harry hadn’t even realized. Wicked! Though that explained a lot about his sinking feeling that he was about to be in a lot of trouble.

 

They met up with Lily in front of the marble-columned steps of Gringotts Bank; James explained where Harry had been in an undertone, and Harry saw her worried frown shift briefly into a scowl before she threw her arms around him, exclaiming in relief, “Oh, Harry, are you all right? No one accosted you on the street, did they?” A bit puzzled, he shook his head no. Did they not know about the festival going on? “What’s ‘Loo-na-sa’, Mum?” he asked without preamble.

Mum let go of him enough for Harry to see the stern look James leveled at him. “Never you mind about those pagan holidays, son,” he said firmly, with evident distate. “They’re not for good people like us.” With that, they made a subdued ascent of the steps and headed for the tellers’ counters. Unlike previous visits, Harry was not permitted to wander the atrium to watch the goblins at their trade – he’d always liked watching them weigh jewels and coins, moving scrolls of parchment around shelves and cabinets, ever since he first could see over the counter. Instead, he listened half-attentively to his mum and dad while they spoke with the teller about his trust vault, any fidgeting restrained by James’ heavy hand on his shoulder. Most of the talk, honestly, went in one ear and out the other; if nothing else, Harry managed to glean that he’d be able to access his vault more, now that he was eleven and soon to attend Hogwarts, and that James had a limited oversight of his spending for the next six years.

When they finally were done in the bank, it was early afternoon; their shopping trip was shortened a bit from what Harry knew of their original itinerary. Rather than explore every window display and visit the larger shops like Flourish & Blotts, the Potters went straight to the wandmaker’s, passing the intersection with Knockturn Alley as they went. Harry could hear the revelry from the street festival, and turned to look – two rickety towers, probably held together by magic, were assembling themselves while bare-chested young wizards shot spells at each other, shouting and laughing as one tower began to tip over. There was a crowd cheering at the sidelines; Harry thought he spotted the brew-bearing wizard, but a word from James had him hurry along to Ollivanders – _Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C._ – instead of spectating.

The moment they crossed the threshold, the noise from outside cut off into an abrupt and pressing silence that reminded Harry eerily of the churchyard in Godric’s Hollow. A soft bell jingled from somewhere in the back of the shop; finally, James let go of Harry again and, with a promise not to leave the shop or cause trouble, Harry was allowed to wander over to the shelves until his dad and mum finished discussing the Auror business that had also brought them along.

(Harry was pretty sure there was _always_ Auror business to attend to. He was happy to take the excuse, if it meant a bit of personal space.)

The rows of shelves off to the side of the shop seemed to go on forever, floor-to-ceiling and wall-to-wall; the dark wood they were made of had the shine of well-polished, old furniture, and every shelf was stacked three-high and two-deep with narrow, dusty boxes that had to hold wands. When he was far enough out of James and Lily’s lines of sight, Harry leaned against one shelf and took a moment to scowl fiercely, brooding over having missed out on the festival.

It was just not _fair_ that he’d had to leave, when he was having so much fun! The lingering tingle on his tongue was all he had left of that fizzy purple brew, and he hadn’t even gotten to _try_ the meat pie. Harry wanted to stomp his foot and yell about it, like the Weasley family’s son Ron did when he didn’t get his way, but even in relative privacy he wasn’t about to act like more of a child than he was. A little voice, the one that always tried to be mature about things, insisted that his parents _must_ have had a good reason not to let him stay, _didn’t he trust them to know what was best_ , but it was overshadowed by the spark of anger in him that he’d had to miss out. What were they so afraid of, anyways? _And what was Loo-na-sa_?

He trailed his fingers over the dusty boxes, keeping half an ear out for any mention of his name. Now that he thought of it, he hadn’t even gotten to know the name of the wizard with the purple brew, either. As best he could now, Harry committed the tall blond man to memory, in the hopes of seeing a relative of his at Hogwarts – or, possibly, of seeing the man himself on the weekly list of wanted men that James brought home. Harry was no fool: the festival _was_ on Knockturn, after all. James was always mentioning Knockturn Alley when he complained about ‘corrupted young men and women’ to Lily, on nights they thought Harry had gone to sleep early.

What was it his father had said? ‘ _Never you mind about those pagan holidays_.’ Pagan holidays – that was it! He could look that up in the encyclopedia at home later tonight.

Harry realized with a start that he’d stopped walking at some point in his inner monologue. His hand was tingling where it rested on top of a box in the corner of two shelves. It felt… _right_ , somehow. Like he was supposed to pick it up. Glancing around, Harry lifted the box off the shelf so he could open the lid. Inside, on a white satin cushion, was a long black wand with a slight groove spiraling around the wood. The sight of it took his breath away, and he was about to take the wand out of the box when he blinked, reason asserting itself again.

According to his parents, Ollivander brought the wands to _him_ , not the other way around. If he took this one, who knew what might happen? Harry really wanted that wand, but he was already going to be in trouble after what had happened earlier – he wasn’t eager to get a further scolding. With a sigh, he set the box neatly back where it had been, hoped the wand would end up in his hand the usual way, and returned to the front of the shop just as his parents looked over to call him. Beside them, staring curiously at Harry, was a white-haired wizard that had to be Ollivander.

His dad’s description of the wandmaker from earlier in the week – when Harry had been pestering him with questions about the process of getting a wand, excited and anxious for his eleventh birthday – proved surprisingly accurate. Ollivander looked intimidating, yes, with an unblinking gaze that made his eyes seem like the magical fakes Harry had read about after meeting Alastor Moody for the first time, when he was eight. (Weird stuff.) He looked Harry up and down, and seemed to come to some kind of decision that he didn’t voice. “Harry James Potter, is it? Yes, a good name, a good name,” Ollivander murmured, trailing off. “Which is your wand arm, then?” Harry held up his right; for a moment, the wandmaker glanced at his left hand, but it happened so quickly Harry thought he might have imagined it. Then a silver tape measure wound itself around his arm, measuring things all on its own to a purpose Harry couldn’t discern, while Ollivander himself disappeared behind the nearest shelves in much the same fashion Harry had, bringing a stack of boxes with him when he returned.

“How interesting,” said the man in a quiet voice, “to see you here, Mr. Potter, so soon after I resorted my shelves!” Silver eyes scrutinized Harry’s forehead, only briefly meeting his gaze. “How interesting indeed. And looking so much like your mother here did, when she bought her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, yes, swishy, willow – nice wand for charm work.”

Harry almost jumped when Lily patted him on the shoulder; he’d forgotten his parents were behind him. Ollivander glanced over at them before continuing. “Your father, on the other hand, favors a mahogany wand. Eleven inches – pliable – a bit more power, excellent for transfiguration. Ah, I say he favors it, but it’s the wand who chooses the wizard, of course.” Was that what had happened with the black wand in the box? Harry was tempted to ask, but kept his mouth shut.

The wandmaker stepped back, took a wand out from one of the boxes, and handed it to Harry. “Give it a wave, now – willow and mahogany don’t quite suit you, do they? No, no,” he took the wand out of Harry’s hand nearly as quickly as he’d given it. “Right then, try this one: beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches – flexible.”

“Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy –“

“Ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy –“

Harry waved each wand in turn when it was handed to him, not sure if he was doing something wrong. In a brief lull, he looked around at his parents, who smiled back at him reassuringly. “Don’t worry,” said his father, “every Potter takes a long time to find the right wand. Want types run in some families – in ours, just the lack thereof.”

“Just be patient, love,” Lily smiled at him. “My wand was the fifteenth, but that’s considered a quick find.”

Harry turned back to watch Ollivander when the man returned with several more boxes. His thoughts lay persistently in the direction of the black wand he’d seen among the shelves; none of these wands were making his hand tingle in quite the same way.

“I thought this might be the case,” mused the wandmaker aloud. Harry wondered if it was for the audience’s benefit. “If you will – this wand here is one of the last made by my grandfather, Gerbold Ollivander, before his retirement. I managed to discover it during my shelf-sorting yesterday, when I had thought all of Old Gerbold’s wands were sold. Walnut and dragon heartstring, twelve inches, solid. He rarely made a wand so unyielding, yet sometimes the firmest wood is the best. Try an up-and-down wave with this one, Mr. Potter.”

Harry took the wand gingerly in his hand and waved it up and down as instructed; a burst of blue flower petals took him by surprise. Ollivander laughed, a surprisingly rich sound. “To think I’d see the day this wand was sold! Excellent, Mr. Potter, just excellent. Eight Galleons, then, for a promising young wizard…”

 

The family of three returned home shortly after, with the promise of a new trip to Diagon next week, when things quieted down on Knockturn. (A week-long party? Harry was impressed.) Harry’s reticence over an early dinner might have seemed like rebellious grumblings following the thorough scolding he’d gotten, but really he was bitter about not getting the wand he’d wanted – the one that had wanted _him_. He kept that concern to himself, still – for all he knew, it was some kind of test, and he’d passed by not letting himself be tempted. Heck, the wand could be _cursed_ or something, and he wouldn’t have known.

He pushed the question of the black wand to the back of his mind in favor of searching for information about Loo-na-sa in the encyclopedia; there was a mention of ‘pagan holidays’, but there was no specific list of them in the book, and there weren’t any other books suggested like there were for other topics. Harry supposed he’d need to look for a more specific book later in the summer, perhaps when he got to visit Flourish & Blotts, and wrote down his query in his journal for now instead.

It was only in the middle of the night, when he knew he was alone, that Harry dared open the wand-box to better examine the wand he’d received – and found another space hidden under the chocolate-colored velvet of the box.

He froze: for underneath the wand he’d received, nestled in a bed of black silk, lay the very wand he’d been thinking about all day, gleaming in the moonlight that streamed through his bedroom window. A tag in neat block-lettering was tucked against the side of the hidden layer, informing Harry that the wand was _thirteen and a half inches, ebony, with a phoenix feather core._ Opposite the tag was a crisp folded note addressed to him in purple ink, which Harry opened very carefully.

 

_Mister Potter,_

_Ebony is the wood of the non-conformist, the highly individual – or one who is comfortable with the status of ‘outsider’. It often serves best the wizard who will hold fast to his beliefs, no matter the external pressure; the wizard who will not be swayed lightly from his purpose. Carvings made from this wood were buried with the Ancient Egyptian pharaohs; and unlike many other types of wood, ebony will not float in water._

_The bark of the ebony tree is often accompanied by mosses and lichens, and male and female flowers will bloom separately on the same tree, producing small but fragrant flowers during the spring. Tropical species of ebony – of which this wand wood is one – produce the finest ebony wood, and a sweet and succulent fruit akin to the persimmon, and the trees themselves are classified by mundane Herbologists (or ‘botanists’) under the genus Diospyros, or ‘divine fruit’._

_That this wand called to you without ever meeting your hand is evidence for its exceptional potential – and your own. Indeed, the phoenix that gave the feather for this wand gave one other feather, to a yew wand whose owner was known for his brilliance. He was often considered a visionary; you may find yourself recognized for the same._

_You may find it helpful to inquire, on your next visit to Flourish & Blotts, about the book by Camellia Meliflua with the clerk in the rare books section._

_With best regards,_

_Garrick Ollivander._

Harry read and reread the letter, slowly getting over his surprise that the wandmaker had noticed him wandering the shelves. Of _course_ he had, Harry realized; it was _his shop_. There was certainly a deeper meaning to the letter, but he wasn’t sure he understood it. The ebony wand was making his fingers tingle by proximity, distracting him from deciphering further – he realized, with some surprise, that he hadn’t actually held it yet.

Taking the wand in hand, Harry felt a tickle on his palm, like a feather being brushed there. A great cloud of heatless silver sparks burst from the end, and a warm gust of wind caught him in the face, smelling faintly of ripe fruit. Harry couldn’t help but smile.

He set the encyclopedia on his nightstand, committing the advice at the end of the letter to memory – with an addendum, that he ought to visit Ollivander to thank him, someday – and hid the walnut wand in the silk where the ebony had been, keeping his ebony wand under his pillow instead.


	2. Chapter 2

The month of August, for Harry, was over faster than it had ever been before. While he would normally have spent the lazy days of summer in the garden beside the house, tending the vegetables he’d planted and helping Lily with the others, this time he ended up spending almost every day reading his textbooks in preparation for his first year at Hogwarts, instead. His parents seemed to be proud of his initiative, and didn’t disturb him from his studies -- nor look too closely at what he was reading.

A week after the Floo Incident, as he privately termed it, he had returned to Diagon Alley under his mum’s careful watch, heading straight for Flourish and Blotts and avoiding any passersby who might have been part of the Lughnasadh (Harry finally learned the spelling) feasts in Knockturn Alley. While Lily browsed the supplementary Potions books, muttering to herself over the various titles and authors, her son snuck away to the rare books section and spoke with the clerk as Ollivander had advised. This was the most significant thing he’d done under his parents’ nose thus far in life, but any nerves he might have felt over speaking to a stranger in such a secretive fashion, at risk of a scolding from his father, were nullified in an instant when the young wizard clerk nodded with a smile and handed Harry a shrunken blue book with a bouquet engraved on the cover.

“Ariel Rosier, of Rosier,” the wizard introduced himself in an undertone. He shook hands with Harry and wished him well. The wandmaker’s recommendation apparently waived whatever the book’s price would have been. Thanking the man, Harry hid the book in his pocket, and returned to Lily’s side just in time for her to ask his opinion on a large reference text that Harry was quite sure they already had gathering dust at home.

Hours later, when he was safely ensconced in his four-posted bed with the curtains drawn, Harry retrieved the book and tapped it with his ebony wand to unshrink it. The book fairly  _ gleamed _ with enchantments in its normal size -- it had as much imbued magic as some of Harry’s best brooms, with a mix of many features he’d enjoyed individually in books around the house. When opened, the pages glowed as if illuminated from overhead, with a light only the reader could see; a single tap of the wand or finger could shrink and unshrink it; and in any size, despite also having a great many more pages than it appeared to, it weighed almost nothing.

The book also had a  _ search function _ , described in the introduction, which Harry had never encountered before but wished he had.  _ In the interest of saving time for the reader, _ it was written,  _ write or speak a word or phrase to the inside front cover and close the book. When opened, it will show only pages that contain the word or phrase. To end the search, simply tap the inside front cover. _ This enchantment, Harry supposed, must have come from an exhausted academic doing too much research.

There was no title on the cover page, strangely, only the author’s name: Camellia Meliflua. Per Meliflua’s suggestions, Harry made a nightly study of the ‘Camellia book’, with a focus on the parts recommended in the preface -- ‘for ambitious new members of our world’. His goal, by the time September arrived, was to comport himself as befitted his status, to take the words from Meliflua’s mouth: he was, after all, considered Near-Sacred, as a son of the Ancient and Noble House of Potter -- and godson of the Heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. The only traditionalists his age with higher status -- or rather, the only ones higher up who would  _ care _ \-- were the Malfoys, the Notts, and the Carrows, as most of the Sacred Twenty-Eight were older than him, and those who weren’t were politically Light and untraditional, like his father.

Harry had, at some point he couldn’t specify, come to wonder about his parents’ opinions of things, particularly his father’s; it must have been around the time he came to terms with his unlikely chances of Sorting into Gryffindor, because he wasn’t blind -- he was  _ nothing _ like his parents and their friends from the Lion House, and he wasn’t about to try and change that. He thought back to Ollivander’s letter: the man was right about him being ‘highly individual’.

Which made him open to considering much of the material in the Camellia book that seemed to challenge James’ opinions of the world -- particularly the information about festivals like Lughnasadh and Samhain (the date of the next Revel Harry could reasonably expect to celebrate at his age). Harry had heard enough from Lily about fact-checking books not to take all of what he read at face value, but the advice given early on -- that he should keep his views on traditionalism to himself, in mixed company -- gave Harry some idea at least of the current social scene and the state of the conflict between the so-called Light and Dark.

Knowing where his father stood on that front (as strictly Light as they come, and loud about it) was what brought Harry to his current conundrum, on the last day of summer. What was the best way, he wondered, to advertise his interest in tradition without his father or his father’s friends finding out? Meliflua had written a  _ very _ long list of symbolic flowers and plants as a reference in the section about the first-years’ travel to Hogwarts, many of which were in their garden somewhere. Nearly an hour of picking about the yards with a pair of clippers and a spool of thread yielded good results: by bedtime, he’d managed to weave a passable flower crown and place it gently on top of the clothes he’d packed in his trunk. For luck, he wove a thin silk ribbon in among the flowers, whispering over it just before he went to bed. Hopefully, very hopefully, this would go as planned…

 

“Keep an eye out, Lucius,” came Mulciber’s voice from Lord Malfoy’s left, scarcely audible over the din of rushing carts and chattering students on the Platform. “The day is nigh -- our next generation is boarding that train with stars in their eyes -- or their names --” a pointed glance at the sharp-eyed Black siblings where they waited with their older cousins -- “on their way to the future; and we might just blink and miss it.” He sniffed and wiped away a tear.

Lucius side-eyed him. “Waxing poetic already, Magnus? They’re still in our sight. No need to be misty-eyed this early.” Still, the corner of his mouth was lifting a little at Mulciber’s dramatics. The man was a talent, really -- he hadn’t even noticed he was stressed until the man eased him with humor.

Now at ease, the flaxen-haired man  snorted and threw back a discreet mouthful of whatever half-cursed brew he’d had left over from Lughnasadh. Lucius went back to watching the first-years boarding the train; he was pleased to see more of them wearing flowers this year, just as there had been more of them last year and the year before. A startled laugh from Magnus had him turning to the platform’s Floo entrance.

“Did I ever tell you,” Mulciber murmured excitedly, “that I saw James Potter’s son at the Revel in Knockturn? Gave him some of the Snapdragon Blitz and everything -- he’d never heard of Lugh, if you’ll believe that, but he fit right in.  _ Now _ look at ‘im, by the Gryffindor end of the train over there -- has an apple blossom in ‘is hat!” He stifled a belch; Lucius resisted wrinkling his nose at the strong smell of grape candy in the man’s breath, looking over.

Sweet Salazar, the boy really  _ was _ wearing an apple blossom. The Potters of Lucius’ generation were  _ notoriously _ untraditional, so much so that even the current patriarch, Fleamont, was at odds with his blatantly Light son and daughter-in-law. Light parents with a Grey -- or, Merlin willing,  _ Dark _ son? Perhaps there was hope for House Potter after all.

The longer Lord Malfoy’s gaze lingered, however, the more he realized the apple blossom was only one part of a larger and more elaborate flower  _ crown _ . A flower crown, woven of laurel and thistle and apple blossom, with an aura that seemed to  _ sing _ of wild magic at play -- with the black ribbon about it, even. Lucius was beyond impressed: he was suspicious. He knew he’d need to watch the boy for the next few years at least.

He also knew that Mulciber had chosen this moment to disclose his knowledge for a reason. But what  _ was _ the reason? Circe, but Magnus was as crafty as he was valuable. And Magnus the Third, already at Draco’s side, would be the same way.

He hoped young Draco would manage to keep up.

“Lucius, darling,” Narcissa said softly from his other side, “I don’t have to put an ear to your temple to hear the clockwork. Pray tell, what have you found so arresting?” He traced his thumb over the back of her hand in a gesture that meant  _ I will share the Pensieve memory later _ , and went back to the observations as his Lord had ordered.

 

Later, Draco Malfoy was glad his father had told him about the Sorting Hat in advance. Because he hadn’t paid the least attention to Professor McGonagall’s explanation. He was too busy maintaining a facade of interest in the other students’ conversations, while he pondered the question of Harry Potter -- because the boy was a great unknown, where he had been told to expect the opposite.

The son of the Potter Heir was supposed to have been a stubborn prat of a dwindling Light faction’s latest generation, someone Draco might dislike even more every time they met. A Gryffindor with no sense of propriety;  _ an object of pity _ , Mother always reminded him,  _ pity the poor children raised not to think for themselves. _

And then Potter had walked into the traditionalists’ compartment on the train with the most elaborate flower crown Draco had ever seen; had greeted the many assembled in the most formal of ways,  _ so smoothly it was like he’d invented the posturing _ . Draco was eleven, but he was a Malfoy of Malfoy and a Black of Black, and he had learnt both the known and unknown flower languages by age nine.  _ Nobility and disguise, preference and danger, _ said the one.  _ I am the cold wind in warm weather,  _ said the other,  _ the wizard who finds his match in magic _ . For apples only bloom and flourish in like company.

Fleeting as the breeze, the moment of the flower crowns was over; Potter had been the last traditionalist to join them on the train, and so all others were barred from entering. They passed around the welcome-wine and waters, feasted on fruits and breads and cheeses; offered libations to their ancestors and the predecessors of the intended Houses; and through it all, Potter was never a hair out of place.

Now, Draco wondered to whom and where the Potter heir-in-waiting had made his offerings. There hadn’t been a Potter in Slytherin in over three hundred years. Harry Potter stood the greatest chance of breaking that pattern, but chance meant so little before the Hat.

“Potter, Harry,” announced the Deputy Headmistress, and Draco flinched back to awareness, looking up from the Slytherin table to bear witness. The rest of his House, young and old, did the same. Anticipating.

 

As his name was called, Harry thought back to his readings in the Camellia Book about Sorting. The Book had written in detail about the Hat -- because ‘breaking the secrecy tradition’  _ was _ the tradition -- and he’d planned out his negotiations for a House other than Slytherin midway through August. All his plans for keeping unnoticed, of sorting not-Slytherin, of practicing the rites and rituals in secret until he left Hogwarts, of keeping up the appearance his parents expected, was washed away in an instant by the ringing echo of the Hat shouting “SLYTHERIN!”  before it even touched his head. He came to terms with discarding those plans in the next moment, as he lay eyes on the green table, where a space had been made for him already.  _ Expect every assumption to be false, _ advised the Book,  _ and every plan to fail; and learn to live accordingly. _

So he took his seat and greeted his new housemates with the sincere pleasure to be there that he didn’t have to fake, this time. When dinner appeared, he chose his food carefully and noticed who noticed him doing it, and took his time to savor it all in silence while the other Houses talked.

 

The Headmaster drew out the lyrics to the school song after dessert, producing a long ribbon from his wand that curled into words. Harry would have read them, but he was immediately distracted by the static shock of a Notice-Me-Not to his person -- one which the other first-years seemed to have also received. Nearly in unison, they rose from the table; the upper years left first, through a hidden passage behind their House tapestry, and about a minute later, the first-years followed, guided by a sixth-year prefect Harry recognized as Mordecai Nott (cousin to Theo of Harry’s year, brother of a Seychelles who had graduated).

Nott led them down into the dungeons at a controlled pace, his robes fluttering softly in the breeze as though he were gliding over the stone. Ahead of him, the fifth-year prefects walked brandishing smoldering branches; and behind the group of first-years, the seventh-year prefects had small tinkling bells in hand that rang with every step. Harry hadn’t read about this in the Camellia Book; he suspected he would find it described in the Slytherin House Rituals, when he searched for it alter.

Their strange procession halted in front of a blank wall, at which point the other sixth-year prefect, who had silver ribbon woven through her dark hair, emerged from the shadows with a ball of green flame cupped in her palms. With a look of concentration on her face, she recited with a slight lisp, “Slytherin welcomes its own, under the protection of the Basilisk. Will the serpent guards permit us?”

A beat of silence. Then, a chorus replied, “We will.”

Cracks opened in the stone in a spiraling pattern, then appeared to fade away. The speaking prefect put an ear to the wall, then stood back, ushering the group in with a gesture. The wall almost seemed to tickle Harry as he passed through.

Inside, the Common Room was a lot different than James’ years of stories had suggested. Harry marvelled at the bright white walls, the opulent stonework, the landscapes painted into the ceiling, and -- most remarkably -- the vast windows on half of the septagonal room. He was not the only one looking surprised: two other first-years who had introduced themselves as Ravenclaw prospectives (and been Sorted otherwise) were also eyeing the room with calculating looks.

From the back of the group, one of the seventh-year prefects stepped forward, making his way to the center of the room. “Greetings and welcome, new Slytherins,” he called out in a melodic voice, offering a dramatic bow to the group. “I am your seventh-year male prefect, Caligula Phylon Burke, of House Burke. On behalf of the Snake House, I congratulate you on your Sorting into a most exclusive and illustrious Brotherhood. You have come to us brimming with potential; talents, skills, interests, obsessions, motivations, dreams...it is the highest ambition of our House as a whole, to bring you up to your greatest heights. One day, each of you will have attained your own objective perfection -- or else died trying, but we do not often try and fail.”

His face had gone from smiling to quite serious, over the course of that speech. Harry could sense a growing tension in the air, a collective anticipation of the next moment. Burke had stepped back from the center of the floor -- where Harry had only just noticed a stone medallion arranged underfoot -- to wave over the other prefect, a girl with laurels in a high crown, and yield her the center stage.

“Slytherin House is self-governing,” she said without preamble. “ _ Do as thou wilt shall be the whole of the law _ , but freedom to act is freedom to suffer the consequences. As such, we humbly suggest you observe the rules of courtesy, and resolve any strong disputes in the Battle Room. Now...for the benefit of your seniors, we invite you all to introduce yourselves in turn to the House.”

The lights dimmed and brightened; quite abruptly, whatever spell had been hiding the upper years was ended. Harry was half-certain more eyes were on him than on the others, but his attention was drawn back to the circle when the female prefect with the lisp stepped forward once more, into the central circle of the stone medallion. She held up a crystal ball and intoned, just as carefully as before, “We call upon the Eye of the Basilisk to witness this initiation; to observe the strength of their heritage; to discern their truths from their lies. We beseech you; will you lend your aid?”

A ghostly voice whispered, “I will.” The orb glowed a bright green, and the prefect set it down on a stone pedestal that had risen from the floor. Prefect Nott stepped forward again to address the first-years; many of whom, Harry saw, had gone pale or stiffened in surprise. “Place your hand on the orb and introduce yourselves; the magic of the circle will encourage you to tell the truth, and the stone will darken if you lie.”

“I will set the example,” announced the female prefect with a curtsy. She lay a hand on the stone and recited, “Iridia Lestrange, of the eastern branch of Lestrange, daughter of Silvanus and Medea Mulciber. I am Slytherin’s seventh-year female prefect and was Quidditch Chaser from my third through sixth year. My specialties lie in artisan Charms and international affairs.” The orb flashed green, and she stepped back, releasing it, so the nearest first-year, Draco Malfoy, could go next. Harry paid close attention to each of the introductions that followed, testing himself on discerning their meanings.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy, of the singular line of Malfoy, son of Lucius Abraxas and Narcissa Black. I am Heir to my Line. I have not discovered my specialty, but intend to pursue studies into Potions theory -- and ritual magic,” the boy added with a brief hesitation, looking surprised that he’d said it out loud.

“Welcome, new acolyte,” whispered the reciting-prefect. Upper years nodded their welcome to Heir Malfoy, and he crossed out from the far side of the circle to join their numbers.

Next was a blond boy that reminded Harry distinctly of the brewmaster wizard from Lughnasadh. He resolved to ask the boy about it later. “Magnus Mulciber the Third, of the primary line of Mulciber, son of Magnus the Second and Vesper Carrow. I am Heir to my Line and an initiate of my House.” (Ah, so brewing was their artisan trade, Harry realized. An initiate at eleven meant the boy had talent, if he understood the Book’s explanation correctly.) “My specialties lie in artificing...and in the composition of magical wit.”

“Daphne Greengrass, of the branch line of Greengrass, daughter of Lloyd and Eadwynn Corwyth…”

“Millicent Bulstrode, of the singular line of Bulstrode, daughter of Frygga and Alphonse Berrick…”

“Vincent Crabbe, of the primary line of Crabbe, son of Vincent Crabbe Senior and Adara Gamp…”

“Gregory Goyle, of the singular line of Goyle, son of Gregory Goyle Senior and Laura Watkin…”

It turned out that few of the first-years were direct Heirs to their lines, though several were considered regional Heirs (a concept Harry still didn’t quite understand, but which had to do with international nobility). A Bellamy Crouch admitted a talent in languages that sounded especially interesting; young Theo Nott turned out to be both heir of his line and a journeyman ward-crafter despite his age, which seemed to impress a lot of people, Harry included.

Finally, it was Harry’s turn (and when had he gone from relieved to annoyed over his place in the line?). He let a wash of cultivated calm ease his nerves, walking up to the center. The orb made his arm tingle, when he touched it. “Hadrian James Potter, of the primary line of Potter, son of James Charlus and Lily Evans. I am prospective Heir to my Line --” and curiously, he felt the words spill out of his mouth as if on their own, “-- and Heir Peverell.” Many people in the crowd were looking at each other in shock, and Harry resolved to look that up later, because he’d  _ never heard of House Peverell before _ . “I have not yet discovered my specialties, and intend to pursue all subjects equally until I do.”

He had been second-to-last, and so had the chance to watch the very last person be sorted from the other side of the circle. Blaise Zabini had been the last one Sorted earlier, too. “...of the clan of Zabini, son of Faustina Eulalia.”

With that, introductions were finished, and the rest of the House ceased paying attention to them, breaking up into their own cliques and meandering about the Common Room and the numerous corridors Harry could now see coming off the main room. Harry knew he could explore the Common Room now if he wished, but he was beginning to get quite tired. Instead, he went looking for the bedrooms.

 

_ In the past, _ Meliflua had written,  _ Slytherins shared rooms all seven years, and only prefects had individual sleeping quarters. This changed from a mandatory to an optional arrangement in 1972, as part of a larger effort to repair and improve the House, and now most -- if not all -- students have rooms to themselves. _

The question now, Harry mused, was how to find  _ his _ room -- the corridor, unlike the main rooms, was rather dark, perhaps to avoid blinding sleepy residents. Fortunately, a solution appeared midway down the corridor in the form of a portrait of a snake, which was greeting every student that passed. “Good evening,” Harry offered, seeing the painted creature turn to look him over with a bright yellow eye. “Do you know where my room might be?”

“Most certainly, young Sslytherin,” it rasped. “Jusst through thiss passssage.” It slid to the bottom corner of the painting and disappeared into the frame, forming a polished silver door handle.

Harry opened the portrait-door and stepped inside, comically oblivious to the shocked stares of the two first-years down the hall. The door previously labelled ‘Harry Potter’, where they had waited for him, simply disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a fun chapter to write - and rewrite, and rewrite, and rewrite....
> 
> Harry's Sorting might not have gone as he planned, but he'll be all right. Probably.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like what you see, please follow me on Tumblr at annabelle-hopkins.tumblr.com! Shout-out to the Tomarrymort Discord crew for inspiring me to keep working on this. ♥


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